


Tough Laab

by stillinmycocoon



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Sexual Harassment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2019-10-21 00:54:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17632991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillinmycocoon/pseuds/stillinmycocoon
Summary: Peter adores his aunt and her food puns, and is desperate for her to find happiness. So while he doesn’t like her new boyfriend, Skip – a pharmaceutical rep with a fast car and strong jaw – he keeps quiet, because she’s happy. And that has to be enough.





	1. The Fire Escape

**Author's Note:**

> It's been over a decade since I wrote anything, but I'm trying to get back into the habit of writing regularly and this idea has been bombing around in my head since I saw Homecoming.
> 
> Please note, this piece will deal with child abuse and sexual assault.

“I’m sorry Peter, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

Steve smiled down at his young friend. Stomach flat to the floor, face animated and feet rocking through the air, Peter continued in earnest. “But this has been so helpful, Captain Rogers! It really puts a human face on history, and I’m sure the kids at school would find it, like, super useful.” A beat passed, detachment shuttering through his body reflexively. “I get it though, sir, no big deal. You have stuff to do, important stuff with Mr Barnes and Mr Fury-”

Bemused, the former soldier shook his head, rolling his eyes skyward. Momentarily, he recalled days long gone, boundless enthusiasm and bouts of anxiety and Bucky clenching his jaw in answer.

What had started as a few stray homework questions had spiralled over the course of the afternoon. What was life really like during the Depression? And food? What did you think the first time you saw a refrigerator? How much did a Coke cost? Was Brooklyn safer then? Can you remember the first time you got in a car? A plane? Did you vacation with your mum? Why were boobs so pointy? Where did you work before the war? Gaining pace, the young genius had led Steve through his childhood and adolescence and crashed onwards into the war years, skirting dangerously close to topics the Avenger would rather guard.

“What do the kids find useful? Ketamine? MDMA? I’m down with the kids.” Tony stalked in, one grease-stained hand gesticulating while the other clutched a tumbler of whiskey.

Peter relaxed again and chuckled, shaking his head and rolling onto his back to stretch cat-like on the rug. “At Midtown? No way,” he replied. “I’m trying to convince Captain Rogers to come and talk about the Great Depression in Mr Akito’s history class.”

“Like I said, Pete,” the blond hero replied. “It’s Steve. And we didn’t call it that.” He turned to Tony. “Kid thinks he can swap out his paper for a walking, talking diorama. Nice try, eh?”

The billionaire nodded along, waving his free hand in circles. “Let me know when you hit the eighties, kid. I’ll be there in a shot.” He collapsed into the chair nearest his young prodigy. “Besides, Captain Spangles doesn’t exactly fly under the radar.” He patted the sofa cushion, and the boy shyly unfolded from the floor and joined him, leaving a wide, formal berth. Tony rolled his eyes at Steve and threw an arm around the boy’s neck. “What do you say to pizza? The old man wants cabbage stew, but I think gastronomy has evolved since the seventeenth century.”

“Vegetables are important, Tony,” the soldier explained patiently. “Perhaps if you ate a bit more cabbage and a bit less pizza, you wouldn’t have had to replace the paunch panels on the suit.”

The playboy looked up severely. “ _Secret_ paunch panels, Rogers.”

Peter smiled, leaning into his mentor’s side. “Pizza or cabbage would be great, but I said I would be home for dinner. Aunt May’s frying tofu.” He let out an unmanly giggle as both faces curdled. “Just going to patrol for a little while first.”

Both adults rushed to reply. “If you turn up to one more armed rob-“ the billionaire began. “Shall Buck and I keep you company?” Steve asked, eyes nervous.

The teen stood, grabbing his bag. Indelicately, he shoved the history textbook in while tugging the red suit free. “Nah, I’m good.”

***

It had been a quiet journey home – one stolen bike wheel, one lost puppy and a simple shoot-and-web in a dingy alley not far from the Tower. Jerkily, Peter wriggled out of the suit in the shadows behind the recycling bins, pulling on a hoody and jeans away from prying eyes. Slowly, quietly, he clambered up the fire escape, pausing outside of his window to suck in gulps of fresh air.

Cross-legged he surveyed the city below. His city, his view. Even before OsCorp, before the spider and Tony and everything else, this had been his favourite spot. May had never liked it, shrieking the first time she found him there; Ben has burst in, seconds later, baseball bat in hand.

“He could fall!” she’d insisted, wild-eyed.

Ben – tall, solid, safe Ben – had chuckled. “Pete. Promise my wife you’re not going to fall.” The eight year old had giggled and promised. “Do you miss having a garden, Pete?”

May’s eyes had softened.

“It’s not that,” said Peter. “I just. I dunno, I just feel closer to them.” His eyes tracked upwards before dropping to his lap.

“That’s ok, kiddo. Just be careful.”

The landing wasn’t quite big enough for an adult and a growing child, but often Ben would sit on the bed, back to the window and read the sports pages while Peter lounged on the grate, wrapped in a blanket and staring at the stars. After the shooting, he’d found himself out here more and more, his lengthening limbs folded, knuckles white as he clutched the bars and stared up, searching for stars amidst the clouds.

This particular night the sky looked bruised. Heavy and purple, sinking into the city and turning orange where it kissed tenement roofs.  

Steeling himself, Peter pressed his hands to the glass plate and shifted the window up, wincing in preparation for the shrill sound of the wood creaking. _Silence, success!_ He tossed his shoes through the gap, turned and stuck one leg inside before twisting to reverse down onto the bed. Kneeling unsteadily on the mattress, he reached up to pull the window closed, before sinking down into the bed. He breathed, relaxed, listened.

His eyes snapped open.

“Where the fuck have you been?”


	2. Skip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter recaps how Stephen Westcott came into the Parkers' lives and the relationship he has formed with Peter. Graphic descriptions of abuse.

Adaptation was a human trait, a biological imperative, but nonetheless one Peter Parker felt he excelled particularly well at. He'd adapted after the disappearance of his parents, then again after being bitten by a radioactive spider and losing his uncle. He’d had just twelve short months with May, working together through their grief, their guilt, before he’d had to adapt again.

Stephen Westcott. _Call me Skip._ He sounded like a jock; looked like one too with his slicked hair, wolfish grins and strong frame. He had a tendency to crush May, giggling like a cheerleader, against his side.  

May had sat Peter down six months ago – had it only been six? – to broach the subject with her nephew. She’d met a nice man at work, a little bit younger, a pharmaceutical rep who came by once a week to speak to the doctors and flirt with the nurses. It wasn’t serious, just a few dates. Did he mind?

How could he? It was his fault Ben was dead. He couldn’t stand in the way of May’s happiness now. Stephen’s not going to take Ben’s place, she’d insisted, he’s nothing like Ben. Too right, Peter would think later.

Peter had relished it at first. His aunt looked young again, laughing, smiling, resting her head on top of his own as they watched reality shows. There was a certain selfishness too; her absence gave him more time to swing about before bed, more heroics, a weekend at Ned’s binging on Star Wars and Mrs Leeds’ cooking. Peter hadn’t met the guy, but he’d peered down from the roof one evening, watching as May stepped into a gleaming, red sports car. “Mid-life crisis, alert!” Peter had mumbled with a grin.

His aunt hadn’t wanted to rush a meeting, hadn’t planned it, but when the day finally came, Peter’s whole body had twitched, tingled, burned in anticipation. By the time May had burst through the door, giggling, several Proseccos past her limit, his slim body was bundled up on the sofa in a blanket. “Oh sweetie,” she whispered, sobering. “What’s wrong?”

“Not sure, May.” His teeth chattered. “Everything hurts.”

“Growing pains,” came a deep voice from the door. The man who stood there was handsome, Peter could see that objectively. Muscled arms poked out from a grey t-shirt, he had a full-head of hair and the kind of square jaw that only existed in comics. But, he wasn’t tall. Ben had been tall; May always said he’d swept her off his feet and she’d been in the clouds ever since. Back then, Peter had scrunched up his nose as he watched Ben lean down to kiss her upturned nose. Now he’d give anything-

Skip waltzed into the room and dropped down onto the end of the couch. May’s couch. It was a bold move, Peter thought, his skin buzzing as he peered shyly out from the blankets draped around his body.

“Maybe now isn’t a good time, Stephen?” May muttered, rushing for the thermometer in the kitchen.

“Sure thing, May,” the stranger replied. He leaned forward to assess the teen, smiling charmingly.

“I’m fine,” Peter said.

“Out of the mouths of babes, huh?” Skip said, slapping a palm down on Peter’s thigh. He pulled the hooded blanket down and smoothed sweaty hair from the teen’s forehead. “Why don’t you hop into bed, while your aunt and I say good night?”

It hadn’t been the worst first impression Peter had ever made; the first time he’d met May’s boss, he’d vomited candy floss over her shoes. Ben had crowed about it for weeks, “Serves her right for all those split shifts, hun!”

Every time the youthful salesman visited, Peter would grit his teeth, straighten his spine and smile. Over time it improved; Skip took him to the ball park, looked over his chemistry notes, gave him girl advice. And then he was moving in.

Peter couldn’t understand it. Why a man with that job, that car, wanted to move into their crappy apartment? Where could he even park that ridiculous convertible in Queens? May had promised that they wouldn’t leave the apartment, holding his eyes with hers, intently. So, Peter thought, it’s my delicate constitution. He could bench-press a Buick, yet some part of him – the thirteen year old part, he supposed – felt relief. He couldn’t leave this apartment. Couldn’t leave the front door his parents had carried him through, rain-soaked, as they left forever; the bedroom when Ben called sports stats through the windows; the room where he’d woken part spider.

Peter had begun to fret that first day, watching as Ben’s books, his guitar, his LPs had disappeared into crates, replaced with boxing trophies and pamphlets about anti-coagulants. Skip bought a new sofa, a large flat screen, even a console “so the kid won’t feel left out”. Peter tried to focus on May’s happiness. She was dancing in the kitchen as they cooked, moaning out in bed at night, cuddling on the sofa – that first evening together, Skip had tugged Peter down between them, his arm curling around the slim shoulders, while May held his hand and sighed softly. Contentedly.

\-----

Sales was a day job. The teen had grown used to the oddities of May’s shift patterns; creeping around first-thing to make breakfast in his pants, coming home from school to find her watching TiVoed breakfast shows in her pyjamas, crawling home at 4am exhilarated after chasing a petty criminal through South Jamaica and making grilled cheese sandwiches without recourse. Suddenly Skip was everywhere. A sleek coffee machine churned as Peter reached for his off-brand cornflakes in the morning; Skip would arrive on Peter’s heels after school, switching the television from vintage Star Trek to ESPN without debate; would barge into the bathroom in the evening as Peter psyched himself up for some vigilantism. Everywhere Skip went, laughter followed. _Morning, sunshine; crushing on the Captain, kiddo?; didn’t mean to bust in on you, doll!_

“Man,” May said, walking through the kitchen one morning. “I’d forgotten what bacon smells like.” She crinkled her nose, sharing a conspiratorial grimace with Peter.

“Smells like morning,” Skip had replied, kissing her cheek and flipping the rashers in the pan.

Peter tracked the globules of fat that went sailing over the cooker. “Smells gross to me.” May tucked in next to him at the counter, pouring a bowl of cornflakes and stealing a sip of juice from his plastic Iron Man cup, with a nudge of the shoulder. Peter glanced up, smiling around his spoon. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m not used to the smell. You like it, I’m sorry. It’s totally fine.”

“Protein helps build muscle,” Skip replied dismissively, eyeing the cup in his hands. “That’s for children, Pete. Maybe it’s time for a glass, eh?”

May laughed. “Peter’s always loved Iron Man.”

Peter felt his cheeks redden.

“He’s a growing boy, May, a young man.” It was said with another wide smile.

May frowned, before turning to her nephew, ruffling his hair. “Do you feel suffocated, Petey-Pie?” she asked, her voice high. He shook his head quickly. “Good. I’m on the day shift – let’s take the bus in together.”

Skip cut in, before Peter could reply. “I’m dropping in to see the bursar at St. Francis’, darling – I’ll take Pete over.”

Traffic was bad. The journey was slow and Peter felt warm in the stuffy, cramped car. Skip’s hand brushed his leg every time he reached for the gearstick, but he wittered on – ball games, Manhattan real estate, doctors he knew. He’d reached over for a hug as they pulled up by the middle school. The other kids peered at the convertible and Peter felt impressive.

\-----

After school (one pop quiz, one attempted wedgie and two terrifying talks about the entrance exam for Midtown School of Science and Technology) Peter had wandered along Queen’s Boulevard, bopping his head to a Miley song with half a mind on quadratic equations and half on low level crime – who the heck would knock over a weener stand?

He paused to say hello to Esther, Mr Freeman’s old German shepherd, tied to the fruit stalls outside the SayeedMart. His shoulders felt tense, the skin behind his ears was tingling, but shaking the dog’s paw and accepting her enquiring snout in the space between his neck and shoulder calmed him. He smiled, stood, and rounded the corner.

The elevator was out, again, but he leapt up the stairs to the apartment, stopping to wave to a toddler riding her trike through the second floor corridor. He shook his keys free from his pocket and made to push the silver one into the lock. The door gave, swinging open and hitting the wall with a bang.

Skip stood in front of him, phone held up to his ear. “I’ll call you back.”

“Wh-What are you doing home so early?” Peter asked.

The man reached for the boy, tugging him inside and hanging up the phone. “Decided to take the afternoon off, kiddo. Spend some time with you!”

More time? Peter thought, toeing off his sneakers. He shrugged and smiled. “I’ve got homework, Mr Westcott.”

Skip frowned. “Jesus. How many times, Pete. Call me Skip. Or you can call me uncle, if you like.” Peter froze. “Skip is fine,” the older man chuckled, holding his hands up. His eyes tracked down and widened. “Woah, what have you been up to?” Peter suddenly became aware of his jeans, muddy and damp. “Been on your knees, babe?”

Peter blushed. It sounded like the kind of thing the drunks shouted at the girls behind Carluccio’s when he was swinging through late at night; _Get down on your knees, bitch_. He forced himself to make eye contact. Skip was smiling his usual smile. “Yeah, I- I wanted to pet Mr Freeman’s dog.”

Skip reached out to ruffle his hair. “Take them off. I’ll throw them in the wash.” Peter felt his face bloom with heat. Hands reached out to his hips to start tugging the jeans down. The teen yanked them back. “What’s the matter, kid?” Skip asked, face open.

Before Skip had moved in, he’d often walked around in his boxers and oversized tees. He’d spent whole summers in Ben’s old vests, alternating between lounging, legs akimbo or sashaying in front of the mirror to the radio with a hairbrush and May’s good heels. The first time he’d stumbled to breakfast in his pants and seen Skip, he’d squeaked and flown back into his room. Another day, Skip had laughed when he burst into the bathroom to find Peter in the bath, slicking his hair in a mowhawk. He’d lingered at the door while Peter flushed. May had sidled along, shook her head smiling. “Give him some privacy, Stephen!”

Peter lowered the jeans slowly, bending to pick them up. “I’ll do it.” He walked into the kitchen, leaning over to throw them in the washing machine with detergent.

“Stick mine in as well.” He turned to find Skip standing, bare-legged, in tight black shorts. The older man reached into the fridge to grab a beer. “Want one?” he asked, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. Peter shook his head, and Skip fished out a soda. “Let’s sit down, play some Nintendo.” He pulled Peter back through to the living room, depositing him on the sofa. He dropped down next to him, legs wide, crowding the smaller body, and handed him a controller.

Skip was a force of nature. Loud, talkative, emotional. He’d throw an arm around Peter every time he wiped out, would clap a hand against his knee to cheer every minor success. His extroversion sucked Peter in and they were still playing when the door opened hours later.

“Well, look at you two!” May cried, taking in the site of discarded shoes and beer bottles, the sound of engines roaring. “My two cavemen.” She deposited Thai takeaway on the counter. Peter’s mouth watered at the aroma. “Dig in. Alice over at the respite home has asked me to take a sleeping shift, tonight. I’ll head out after dinner.”

Skip nodded, helping himself to another beer. “No problem, May. I’ll keep an eye on Pete.” He smiled and Peter smiled back.

 -----

The teen sat cross-legged on the bed, conjugating verbs for Spanish class. He whispered each one in a sentence. Ms Esposito was a stickler and pounced when her students least expected it. Occasionally the roar of the basketball game drifted down the hallway, the clink of glass, but Peter was surprised when the door burst open suddenly.

May had left some time ago, kissing his hair and promising they could have pancakes in the morning. He’d drifted away finishing off his physics homework and had forgotten about Skip by the time he’d started on the Spanish.

“Fuck - homework on a Friday night, Einstein?” Peter shifted awkwardly as the older man stumbled into the room. He hadn’t heard him swear before. Skip took in his stillness, his wide eyes. “Sorry, sorry. Had a few beers.”

The bed rocked as the older man sat, lounging into Peter’s space. He plucked the textbook from his hands and threw it carelessly on the floor, before grasping the teen’s bent knee. Peter blushed as he realised his legs were still bare. So were Skip’s, meaty and covered in light hair.

The window was open a crack, and Peter shivered in the breeze. Grunting, Skip manoeuvred himself up the bed, leaning on one elbow and using his hand to finger the teen’s locks. “Relax.” Peter became aware how tightly his muscles were coiled. “Lay down.” Peter laid flat. The hand in his hair travelled to his chest, stroking roughly up and down over his Jurassic Park tee. “Your aunt is amazing,” Skip whispered. “She’s such a great nurse. Giving up her Friday night to care for those poor souls before they go.” Peter nodded, his stomach knotted. As if he could sense it, Skip’s hand, cold and clammy, snuck under the edge of the t-shirt, pressing against Peter’s slim abdomen. Peter caught the wrist. He considered squeezing, considered shoving the older man away. “Fast reflexes, kid,” the man chuckled. “It’s my Friday night too. I wanna have fun,” Skip slurred, shifting his hand up to grasp the teenager’s round jaw. A kiss pressed against Peter’s cheek softly.

Peter’s heart was hammering in his chest. He shifted away, whispering, “I think you should have fun alone, Mr Westcott.”

Skip sighed. “No. You don’t understand. Let me show you.” Peter froze as a hand dove suddenly into his boxers, grasping at him. The older man began to laugh, the same way he laughed when a particularly good SNL skit came on or when May burned corn in the oven.

“Stop, stop, please stop, Mister-” Peter hissed, a mantra. His penis had hardened, he felt so hot, so sensitive. His eyes squeezed shut, blocking out the smiling, sweaty face above him. Kisses dotted down over his face. Suddenly, he found himself crushed beneath the man, his stiffness rubbing against another. His hands flailed, batting uselessly at Skip’s back. _Push him off_ , a voice inside his head screamed. _Don’t hurt him, May loves him_ , came the reply _._ “Please get off, please!” A peculiar sensation was rising in his stomach and tears were trickling from his eyes down to his ears.

“Lots of handsome men on your walls, Petey,” Skip chuckled. “I’m a handsome man, too, ain’t I? Just imagine I’m Captain America, huh? Imagine I’m Han Solo.” The rocking motion continued and Peter gasped beneath him. There was way too much input and his face screwed up as a wave crashed over him. Skip rolled to the side, shucking his underwear down and palming himself. “I knew you wanted me too, Pete, I knew it.” Did he, Peter wondered, his lap cooling. “Our secret, Einstein.”

\-----

Peter had been shell-shocked. For days he’d scuttled, spider-like, out of the reach of Skip. May was home for the weekend and her boyfriend had been loud, generous, kissing her cheeks, praising her cooking. “Sit down and watch a movie with us, darling!” May had entreated on Sunday evening, smiling broadly. That night, she’d sat on the edge of his bed, stroked his hair. “I was so worried we’d never have this again. After Ben-” She had broken off. “Thank you for accepting him, Peter. Stephen is so good for us.”

Every night shift May worked, the older man would visit his room, would pull him down onto the sofa, would follow him into the bathroom. “Just let me watch you,” he’d said with a smile, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. “Let me touch you,” he’d groan in Peter’s ear, stroking his bare thighs.

After a time, it was no longer a passion relegated to the darkness. The long, hot days of summer stretched out for what seemed liked months and his fourteenth birthday passed in a blur – Ned came round for a movie marathon and Skip bought Peter a laptop. “Woah,” Ned had whispered reverently, while Peter sat, purposefully, between his friend and Skip. “Stephen, that’s so generous!” May had exclaimed. “Say thank you, Peter.”

Magazines, sticky and grubby were pushed into Peter’s lap that night. “Most dads don’t share this stuff,” Skip had said, smiling down at him. The teen wanted to reply that his dad was dead, just like his uncle, but instead he said thank you. “Lay on the bed like this guy.” Skip had searched for videos on the laptop and tried to use his mouth on Peter; the teen shrunk away. “I’ve got some little blue pills to help with that, kiddo!” he’d chuckled. Peter had trembled with pleasure and blacked out the next time Skip tried, and later he had insisted that Peter return the favour. “Let me fuck you, just once, come on Einstein! Like the video,” he’d growled the next day. It wasn’t once.

Peter’s skin was clammy and the air unit whined high and constant like a dentist’s drill as Skip had forced his way in. It had hurt – the finger tips pressing bruises into his hips and the ripping of skin as a dick pressed in. It was Skip’s word, “dick”. “You like my dick, Einstein? Take it, come on.”

The men in the videos seemed to think it felt good. It didn’t feel good. Peter’s muscles constricted, tighter and tighter until a hand grasped his penis. “Relax, relax, relax,” the older man grunted rhythmically. “I’ve got you.” Peter came and so did Skip, crying at the sensation, crying the real tears that Peter couldn’t squeeze out as he stared at the window, as he imagined Ben sat there watching. “I love you, Einstein. Don’t you love me?” Peter had nodded, agreeing to nothing.

Peter would sneak out afterwards. His muscles would heal, the bruises would fade and he would slip out onto the fire escape. One night, he’d stumbled across a woman in an alleyway, screaming as a man pushed her skirt up to her hips in the dark. Her nose was bloody and her arms pinned down. This was rape, Peter thought, swinging down to crash into the assailant’s side. He’d slammed his fists into the man’s face over and over, screaming and crying, before webbing him to the wall.

He jumped as a hand curled around his elbow. The woman was shivering as she asked, “Are you ok?”

No, he thought, but still he ran to the end of the alley and catapulted himself onto the rooftop.

\-----

A few months ago, he’d wandered home from a successful dumpster dive, his heart swelling, his muscles calm. A sports car was attracting a crowd. It wasn’t Skip’s; Skip was out of town and Peter was relishing five whole days with May. She was going to take a few less shifts. The salesman hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye.

Peter had headed straight for the kitchen, stalling as he spotted Tony Freaking Stark on the couch. His aunt looked so proud, so delighted, and he’d joined in the billionaire’s ploy as nimbly as possible, before following him to his bedroom.

Stark pressed the door closed with a click, turning to survey the box room and spitting walnut dateloaf into the bin. Peter shivered, and attempted to focus, feeling hollow. No tingle, no shooting pains. But why was this man in his bedroom? God, why was he sitting next to him on the bed, surveying his Captain America poster, outing his biggest secret and talking about Europe? “…unusually attractive aunt?” No, Peter had gasped. No. Aunt May couldn’t know anything.

Peter had proven himself useful in Germany and, in time, the Civil War had blown over. May found out and Spidey became their secret from Skip, something just for them. Tony Stark, playboy and gossip magnet, hadn’t been what he expected – not some new horror, but a lifeline. A new suit, a mentor, a free pass out of the house several nights a week. The Avengers had become like family, talking to him, teasing him, giving advice and listening to him ramble. Captain America was teaching him to spar; Bruce Banner wanted to read his science papers; Tony was letting him tinker in the lab. Life became easier again. Peter had high school, the internship, Spiderman; Skip and the things he let Skip do to him were boxed up neatly in his mind even as the man grew bolder.

Skip had crushed him against the door the first time he returned home from a sleepover at the Tower, licking into his mouth. “Did he fuck you?” Insistent hands had dug into his hips, under his shirt. “How does it feel to get fucked by a billionaire, huh?” Skip sounded desperate, his eyes wide.

“We don’t- Tony doesn’t want that,” Peter grit out. _Doesn’t he?_ A poisonous whisper echoed through his mind. He rested limply, fighting down the urge to buck away. He could hear May singing in the kitchen. His vision darkened as Skip slammed his head forward into the door.

“Pete!” He called, opening the door and heading out to the corridor. “We don’t slam doors in this house, buddy.”

The youngster grimaced as May’s face appeared out of the living room, frowning. “Has my nephew turned into some terrible teenager?”

“Sorry May,” he said with a soft smile. She tilted her head, grinned and returned to charring eggplant.


	3. The Experiment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't quite where I want it to be, but I fear I'm writing myself into a corner. Peter is testing out his relationship with Tony here, who - along with May - is still oblivious.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

The words came a beat on the heels of his Spidey sense. Peter cringed and castigated himself; why was he so stupid? How had he missed the release of breath, the aortic throb, the synthetic grapefruit scent of Skip’s hair slick?

Peter shot upright, but was forced flat again swiftly as the blond curled over him like a dog preparing to rut, his pale eyes narrowed. A large sweating palm pressed against the teen’s mouth; the other clutched at a bony wrist.

“Where were you, Einstein?”

Peter felt his chest tightening. He wanted to lash out, he wanted to hurt the man stealing his breath. His wide eyes slipped from the face above his, red, to the door and the brightly lit corridor beyond. The clinking of pans drifted from the kitchen and in a moment of panic, the brunet stretched and struck out at the desk lamp on his bedside table, sending it to the floor with a heavy thunk.

Skip leapt away, betrayal clear on his face. Peter pulled his knees to his chest, eyes on the door. A moment later May appeared, spatula in hand. 

“Boys? Everything alright in here?”

Before Peter could think to lie, Skip was talking: “Just caught him sneaking in the window, May.” He had crossed his arms and was peering down at Peter on the bed, jaw tense and righteous.

May’s eyes travelled from her boyfriend to her nephew, to the window and the battered backpack; she knew the secret it carried and thought fast to diffuse the tension. “Peter,” she said. “You have to be careful. You know I don’t trust the fire escape – it’s a rickety piece of crap and if you fell and broke every bone in your body, it would really ruin my night off.”  She met her nephew’s eyes to offer encouragement and Peter found himself nodding.

Skip turned to gape at his girlfriend. “May, this isn’t a joke. We don’t even know where he’s been.  Do you think it’s okay for a teenage boy to be sneaking out at all hours?”

May pulled a face Peter had never seen. “All hours? Stephen, it’s not even eight.”

“He was with Stark again!”

“Peter?”

The teen fought to find words. “Yeah, I was helping in the lab, doing some homework. I- I came home for dinner.”

“That’s okay, honey. The internship is an incredible opportunity and I know you’re working hard to stay on top of your schoolwork. Just,” she smiled at Skip, placating him. “Just use the front door, hey?” She ushered Skip from the room. “Nearly time for tofu!”

That night, as he curled up on the bed with a belly full of bean curd, Peter stared at the closed door and listened as the couple argued, their voices hushed and their words tense. He listened when Skip growled that he was going to stay with his brother and slammed out of the apartment. He listened as May cried herself to sleep.

\---

Skip had returned on Saturday afternoon with flowers and chocolates and a prescription for Xanax. He’d hugged May tight, not lifting his head to survey the teen at the kitchen table. He called their dysfunctional unit a family. He spoke of his strict upbringing in the suburbs and his fear for a small, gentle teen on the streets of the city. He promised to stay calm. May had melted; she knew what it was like to worry about Peter Parker, after all.

Thursday night shifted into Friday morning and Peter remained wide-awake.

Skip hadn’t snuck into his room, hadn’t cornered him, hadn’t driven him into school or pushed the bathroom door wide to hurry him out of the shower. The teen felt tense and confused. The salesman had insisted he loved him; had he fallen out of love, had Peter pushed him away? Could he relax? He wondered why he did not feel relief. People often spoke of relief as a flood washing through their body, yet each morning, as the schoolboy walked the halls of Midtown, he felt like he had drowned. Sometimes his sensitive hearing picked up his own heartbeat. _When, when, when?_ it beat out in staccato. In third period, Ned told him he looked like a zombie. They spent the rest of Phys Ed jogging around the basketball court and huffing out increasingly lurid apocalyptic scenarios until Flash lapped them and Ned had an asthma attack.

Friday was always his internship day and as he dressed, ate his cereal and brushed his teeth, all Peter could think of was Skip’s words about Mr Stark. “How does it feel to get fucked by a billionaire?”, “What do you think he sees in you, Einstein?”, “Do you bend over for him, Pete? Like this?”

His mind re-ran every moment he had spent with Tony the engineer and Tony the hero, testing each word, each look and each touch against the matrix Skip had so thoughtfully provided. Tense and troubled, the teen shouldered his backpack and stretched headphones around his neck as he prepared to leave.

“I’ll drive you in, Einstein,” Skip said, collecting his briefcase from the coffee table.

Skip didn’t touch him as they stood side by side in the cramped elevator, but did hold the teen’s elbow as they crossed the street. He opened the passenger side door, a gentleman, and guided Peter’s head as he lowered into the seat. The drive was tense, silent save occasional curses spat at changing lights and taxis meandering across lanes. The car pulled over two streets away from the school and Peter stiffened as the engine cut.

The salesman’s eyes were intense and the teen struggled to meet them. A hand reached out to hold his own. “Are you going to the Tower tonight?” Skip asked. Peter nodded. “Please be careful.”

Peter wanted to shout, he wanted to cry, to scream out that a week ago he had almost been suffocated in his own bed. “I will,” he muttered instead, forcing his face to remain blank.

Skip nodded, his grip tightening. “He wants you, Einstein. You’re smart. You can see it, right?” Peter mirrored, simple psychology, nodding while his brain continued to filter through encounters in his bedroom, at the lab, on a private plane to Germany.

An opportunity to perform the requisite experiment would not present itself for several hours.

Mr Stark was buzzing with energy from the moment Peter entered the lab. After a close call involving a river of lava and the magnesium exhaust from his thrusters, the billionaire had decided to add a bungee cord to the midriff of one of the Iron Man suits, a project, he explained in his usual drawl, that required the teen’s chemical genius and his own panache. “It has to be red or gold,” Stark had added, his face straight.

Harmoniously they had whiled away an evening mixing web fluid that would be strong enough to withstand the weight of the suit. Colonel Rhodes appeared as the hour grew late, sipping a beer in his civilian wear and heckling Tony’s outlandish ideas from a stool in the corner.

The spider bite had been luck, neither bad nor good, yet a fluke. The webbing, though, that was Peter’s masterpiece. Tony had suggested in passing, on more than one occasion, that they patent it as soon as the teen turned eighteen. “For medicine and policing and hammocks and the good of all mankind,” he explained.

The organic composite was volatile, yet Peter felt confident a rouged success was within his grasp if they stuck to natural dyes. His mind drifted homeward occasionally, causing his stomach to tense and he wondered briefly if his mentor would sanction an impromptu trip to South America to gather cochineal by hand. Instead, he found himself grasping for Allura Red AC. The sulphuric element, he knew, would not react well to the webbing, but would perhaps help to bring about the perfect double-blind. Feigning distraction as the two adults bickered, Peter passed a test tube to DUM-E who obligingly plucked it from his fingertips before turning smoothly to the beaker, hydraulics whirring naively. 

The explosion rocked across the workbench, lifting Peter from his feet and dousing the immediate vicinity in red sludge, both viscose and vibrant.

Rhodey’s eyes were wide as he surveyed the scene. Tony blinked once, twice and burst quite suddenly into guffaws. He reached down into the mire to pull Peter upright. “Alright there, you B-movie blob?” Peter nodded jerkily, but the motion caused him to slip. Tony tightened his hold and pulled the youth to dryer ground. “Get out of those slimy slacks, kiddo.”

“I’ll grab something,” the colonel said, striding out.

“Shirker,” Tony muttered, wiping at an expensive looking tablet ineffectively.

Peter’s brain went blank, empty. Tentatively he pulled his jumper up and off, dragging the t-shirt with it. He turned to face Tony, but the man wasn’t even looking, berating DUM-E instead. Hands shaking, the teen unbuckled his jeans and let them fall into a sticky heap. His eyes stared out across the room, but his brain wouldn’t interpret the data.  

A wolf whistle bought Peter back to consciousness. “Someone’s not shy, huh?” Tony chuckled. “Put it away, you’ll scandalise poor Cap if he stumbles across a naked teen in the lab. That or Pepper will see you standing there like a new born colt and start talking babies again.” The engineer faked a shudder as Rhodey reappeared, sweats in hand. “Cover your eyes, man!”

The colonel rolled his eyes instead of covering them and tossed fresh clothes to the intern. “Here you go, Pete. Get these on before you catch your death.” He turned back to his best friend, muttering something about the state of his bedroom.

Peter smiled tentatively, shimmying the jogging bottoms over his slim hips. He pulled the laces as tight as possible, but the waistband continued to sag, exposing his boxers. He burrowed into the large t-shirt next, grimacing as it fell past his bottom and slid down his left shoulder. Upside down he read the faded print: M.I.T.

“Mr Stark? Are these yours?”

The man in question looked across. He smiled, warm and natural and not at all shark-like. The right-wing pundits on the news often zoomed in on paparazzi shots of the billionaire, on his gleaming teeth and his tinted glasses. They liked to describe him as detached and dangerous, devious even.

Tony bobbed his head to confirm, adding, “We need to fatten you up.” He strode forward and kicked the ruined pile of clothes towards his pet robot, then reached out to ruffle Peter’s curls. “So damn cute.“ He slung one arm around Peter’s shoulders and another round Rhodey and marched them out of the lab. “Can you stay tonight? I’m thinking sci-fi and pizza.”

“I’ll have to call May,” Peter said, calculating ways to repeat his experiment. Results were not conclusive if not reproducible.

\---

It was gone midnight and Rhodey was snoring in an arm chair. Peter had draped a throw over the man an hour ago and found his mentor videoing the move on his phone when he turned back. The teen had returned to the sofa, smiling shyly at Tony who was slurping back his fourth beer and hypothesizing about the textile production practices of Ewoks as his eyes grew glassy.

Heart pounding, Peter seized the opportunity to simulate sleepiness, eventually tipping back into cushions with his eyes closed. He fought to keep his arms relaxed at his sides, his legs splayed. It took the tipsy engineer a little while to notice the teen’s predicament, but when he did, he huffed out a laugh and, after an aborted attempt to reach the remote, called for JARVIS to switch off the movie.

Outside of the Tower, Tony Stark smelled rich; his expensive aftershave wafted ahead of him into a room and drifted behind long after he left. Inside, it was engine oil, the bitterness of dried sweat and the vanilla of his shampoo. Peter had come to find both scents equally as comforting, but in this moment, all he could make out was the stale smell of beer on the man’s breath as he leaned over him, a warm hand shifting the baggy tee back into place on his shoulder. With one heave, Peter was lifted up into strong arms, his head pillowed against a firm chest, a soft blue light glowing just beyond his closed lids. Sensing their journey along the corridor, the soft mattress that soon met his spine came as no surprise; this was it.

Peter waited for a hand at his waist, his jaw, his thigh. He almost jerked as he was enveloped by a wad of bedding, instead; thick sheets, an artisanally knotted blanket, a feathered duvet. Mr Stark forced the material tight, then walked around the bed to draw the other side of the covers tighter. He paused, fighting to loosen the wrappings before seemingly changing his mind and tightening them again.

“JARVIS?” the man hissed into the night. “How do you tuck in a kid into bed? Is it supposed to be tight so they don't fall or loose so they don't suffocate?”

Peter bit back a giggle as he heard the billionaire fret. Relief, this was relief.

“I think you’ll find, Sir,” the AI answered. “That most fourteen-year-old boys do not require tucking in.”

“Huh,” Tony replied. “Well, that ship has sailed.” He pushed curls away from the teenager’s closed eyes and pressed a quick, feather light kiss against the pale forehead. “Sweet dreams, Pete.”


	4. Breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NB: Sorry about the delay – real life, that trite vexation, reared its ugly head. This chapter is long and imperfect and the first part may put a few noses out of joint, but I think it is an important element to move the story forward. The second part features sexual violence; please avoid as necessary.

Peter stretched out, luxuriating in the feel of rich cotton on his skin, in the glow of his successful experiments. The night before, Mr Stark’s light kiss had proven as effective as a switch, plunging the teen into a deep, restful slumber. Peter felt calm as he pulled himself out of the bed. He carefully folded the covers back to cover the dip in the mattress and shrugged out of his mentor’s worn tracksuit. Rifling through his backpack, he located wrinkled basketball shorts and a clean t-shirt to wear to breakfast, and made his way into the hallway.

As Peter approached the kitchen, the thick scent of frying pancake batter and coffee drifted through the air, accompanied by the murmur of voices; the Falcon’s confident belly-laugh, Sergeant Barnes’ measured interjections.

He shuffled into the room, wiping at his eyes as he woke further, smiling at the _freaking Avengers_ who had gathered to break their fast. It didn’t get old, the teen thought to himself. Sam was holding court at the table, pouring milk extravagantly onto his cereal from dangerous heights while Natasha arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow at his antics; Bucky was leaning over the counter at Steve’s side while the latter, waist wrapped in an apron, ladled batter into a pan; Tony sat, legs crossed at the knee, newspaper held high, ignoring them all.

Impeccable in dress and manners as always, Steve was of course the first to notice the youngster’s arrival. “Good morning, son. How did you sleep?”

Peter blushed as he often did under the direct attention of the First Avenger. “Well. Thank you, sir,” he replied, as Tony folder his paper and un-crossed his legs to appraise his protégé. The billionaire snorted at his deference, mouthing “Sir!?” across the table. Peter smiled brightly, “How’s your head, Mr Stark?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “What are you talking about? It’s tip top. Two beers.”

Colonel Rhodes emerged from the larder a moment later. “Four, old man, four beers.” He handed a punnet of blueberries to the chef, who smiled in thanks.

“I’m not the one who fell asleep, grandpa.” Tony turned his gaze to Peter. “Cap’s making pancakes, kid – how many do you want?”

“One, please,” Peter said.

Bucky shook his head and muttered something about bin-lids under his breath. “Make him half a dozen, pal.”

The Captain peered at the teen from under his fringe, continuing to stack the treats high on a plate. “You need to pay attention to nutrition, Peter. With our metabolisms you can’t cut corners.”

Peter nodded and sat, scooting his chair away, subtly, from Sam and towards his mentor. “I will,” he insisted as Bucky ferried over a teetering tower of food. Natasha poured a glass of orange juice and slid it towards him like a bartender in a movie. He smiled at her shyly as the Winter Soldier took a seat at her side, whispering something in Russian. She nodded, lips pursed.

The teenager loved meal-times at the Tower. He missed daily catch-ups with his aunt and uncle over laab and stir-fry, their jokes, their nagging, their love. He munched his pancakes methodically, licking his sticky lips as the group bickered and bragged and recalled days gone by. Tony was telling Rhodey about Peter’s Academic Decathlon team while Bucky regaled Sam with a story of Steve confronting his racist 4th grade teacher. Natasha moved silently, collecting Peter’s plate when he finished and wiping butter from his chin with a soft smile.

It was a wonderful morning, until he ruined it.

Peter loved Bucky. After Germany, it had taken months for Tony to introduce him to any of the Avengers, longer still until he had begrudgingly let Steve bring the Winter Soldier downstairs while Peter was visiting. The moody assassin had taken to the teenager instantly, intrigued and protective. Bucky had let Peter tinker with his mechanical arm, had spoken softly about Coney Island, about Europe, enquired often about pop-culture and watched YouTube clips over the teen’s bony shoulder, concentrating intensely. They were friends – after a fashion – and Peter felt he could relate to this man, this man with secrets. Under the watchful eyes of the Captain and the billionaire, both had, with time, grown in confidence.

Rhodey left for a briefing and Natasha followed. Steve pottered around, wiping down the table and putting fruit back in the fridge. Everyone was smiling, everything was perfect. Peter watched the stocky Brooklyn-native as he followed his friend across the room, watched him circle the blond’s waist with his thick arms – one flesh, the other vibranium – and plant a kiss upon the nape of his strong neck. Blood roared in Peter’s ears and he looked from side-to-side to see if the others had noticed. Sam had picked a fight with Tony about something several minutes ago and the pair were gesticulating wildly. He turned back to the scene in the kitchen and the world slowed down as Steve twisted, throwing an arm around the brunet’s shoulders and taking a square jaw in his palm to meet waiting lips with his own.

“What the fuck?” Peter whispered. His words rent the air, cutting through contentment.

“Are you ok, son?” Steve had pulled away, but kept his arm over Bucky’s broad shoulders, the other man’s brow creasing with concern, with confusion.

Peter looked to Tony, who peered back through purple lenses. “What’s wrong kid?”

The teen clenched his fists, pressing them against his knees. Hands clutched at his thighs, hot breath licked at the skin below his ears. He shook his head to dislodge the sensations, and stared back across the room, blinking. “What are you doing?”

Bucky was staring back – Steve made for the table, but the assassin curled silver fingers on his hip to hold him in place. “I suppose we never explained, but, well, Buck and I-“

“It’s disgusting,” Peter said.

Sam straightened in his chair and Tony let out a bark of laughter. “Kid, what are you-“

“This isn’t funny, Stark,” Sam interrupted. Peter felt hot under the man’s gaze and shook his head.   

“You’re joking, right, Pete?” Tony insisted, flapping a hand at him and across to the couple in the kitchen. Steve was clutching a tea towel, wringing it tightly between white knuckles; Bucky’s steel grey stare was appraising.

The Captain looked upset, Peter thought abstractedly. His super-hearing picked up the soft sound of fibres tearing under the soldier’s grip. Then he heard the sound of Skip’s grunts. “Is it a joke?” Peter repeated, looking desperately back at the billionaire. “I don’t understand.” Tony looked surprised, genuinely surprised, Peter thought.

“Peter, I’m- We’re sorry, we thought you would- Nowadays, I thought-“ Steve trailed off, biting a lip. Bucky continued to compute, watching, saying nothing, but petting the hipbone beneath his hand gently.

The Falcon looked dispassionate, professional. “I can see you’re surprised, but I’m disappointed by this reaction, Peter,” he said, heavily. “Steve and Bucky are in love and they have waited a long time to be together. You’ve hurt their feelings and you should apologise.” Peter shook his head; the room was spinning and he tried to find the words to explain that. “Put yourself in their shoes, Peter. You’re being very hurtful.”

“Me?” Peter spluttered. He stood, pushing the chair backwards and stumbling from the table. He imagined the two super soldiers together, in bed, on the floor, Steve face down with a metal hand biting into his shoulder.

Tony reached up to steady him, gaze severe. “What’s going on with you, Pete?” Peter wrenched his arm away and fell back, stumbling across the legs of the chair.  

Steve rushed forward to help him up. “Don’t touch me!” Peter screamed, scooting backward and pushing himself up. Steve looked desperately at his lover, who leaned heavily against the counter, silent. “Gross,” Peter hissed, looking between them. “It’s gross. Why would you let him-“

“That’s enough, Peter!” Tony thundered.

“I’m going,” Peter bit out, turning away. He needed his bag, the suit.

“Good!” the billionaire yelled after him.

\---

Peter had suited up in record time and leapt from the window, refusing to face the group again or acknowledge the raised voices behind him.

Safe in red spandex, he swung clear across the city and back again until the sun reached its zenith and began to dip back down. He swung until his head pounded and his shoulders ached, until sweat dripped down the small of his back and streaked his temples.

Did they all know? Did everyone already know that Steve and Bucky were fucking? Didn’t they care? Did they know that Peter had let Skip touch him, let him fuck him too? Would Mr Stark care? Would Bucky and Steve, or would they want to touch him as well?

Skip’s car wasn’t parked in the alley when he finally reached a familiar roof in Queens. Peter perched in the shade of the chimney stack for some time, imagining Bucky’s metal fingers clutching his hip, Steve’s perfect nose against his neck and an iron grip on his wrist. He cried, hot furious tears, and watched May dash out the street door at the front of the building, watched her wave at Alejandro as she passed the bodega and dodge the Fairman twins as they cycled past.

Exhausted and over-heated he crawled into his room, shed his suit and climbed into bed.  

Peter woke again a few hours later. His skin felt cooler and his headache had abated. The sun was setting, and light, caramelised, was pouring through the blinds. He peered at the end of the bed, stared at the memory of Ben, and knew that he would be ashamed of Peter’s outburst over breakfast. Ben had been a warrior; fair and calm, intervening wherever he saw injustice. He told off bullies, challenged racist jokes, walked women to their cars. He was a hero. Peter’s hero.

He remembered jigsaws on the carpet as the rain lashed at the window, long days at the beach and a longer subway ride home, nights lying side-by-side on the grass as comets passed overhead. Peter had felt safe by his uncle’s side, and he had felt safe with Steve and Bucky. Steve had taught him the manoeuvre that outfoxed an armed mugger high on bath-salts last year; Bucky had sat by his side, knees touching, silent, waiting for Tony to return from the reactor meltdown in Buchanan last month. They had never hurt him, never. If they made each other happy, if _that_ made them happy, he would apologise, he would make this better, make Ben proud.

Shaking away the vision of his uncle – newspaper in hand, legs stretched across the mattress – Peter rolled out of the bed, and pulled on his shorts and a tee. He wiped his itching eyes and the salt tracks on his cheeks, rotated stiff shoulders and shoved a bundle of red fabric into the wardrobe as he made his way out to the kitchen.

Iron Man beaker already in hand, it took a moment to register soft snoring coming from the sitting room. The television flickered, mute, though he could hear the fan hum against the wall. The moment his eyes fell on Skip, dishevelled on the couch, was the moment the man woke. The cup fell from Peter’s hand, bouncing off the floor as he dashed for the pale safety of his bedroom. He pressed the door closed and pushed his forehead against it. It did not lock. He could barricade it with his desk, he could hold it shut with his superior strength, but how the hell would he explain that? Moments later the handle was turning and he stumbled back as the door opened.

“I thought you were out,” he said as Skip swayed into view.

“Left the car at O’Malley’s,” Skip replied, leaning against the door frame. Peter could smell the stale scent of hops from six feet away. “You’re supposed to be with Stark.” He lifted a hand, grasping the children’s cup in his hand and giving it a little shake.

“Yeah, we-“ Peter shut down his impulse to tell the truth. _We had a fight._ “He had work to do.”

“Too busy for you, Einstein?” Skip was approaching. “I’m not too busy for you.” He tossed the beaker and two sets of eyes tracked its journey across the floor, rolling until it came to a stop next to a red rag. Peter felt his stomach plummet and jerked forward. “Fuck is that?” Skip leaned down and picked up a multi-million dollar prototype mask with polarised lenses and an inbuilt A-I. “What the fuck is this?” The teen scrambled to answer. How could he be so stupid, so distracted? Before he could think of a good enough excuse, Skip was continuing. “A toy? Another fucking toy?” He lashed out, knocking a squadron of airfix aeroplanes off of the bookshelf. He reached up to rip a _Next Generation_ poster from the wall.

Peter felt slow, baffled, but relieved by his narrow escape; a toy. He reared back, but not fast enough as Skip bought up his hands and yanked said toy down over his head. Twisting across his skull, the tight fabric bunched up over his mouth. Two fast punches to his gut had Peter stumbling, gasping for breath and instead gagging on the sweaty fibres against his tongue. The world tilted as the older man dragged him to the ground and Peter bought his arms up reflexively to push against the chest bearing down on him.

“You’re not a little boy,” Skip roared, fighting to force Peter onto his belly. “I’m not sleeping with a little boy!”

The side of the mask stretched tight over his eyes and Peter could see only red; a hard lens bit into one temple just above the air filter that should have covered his nose. One earpiece rested against his cheek. He could just about make out Karen’s voice, confused as an artificial caretaker could be, over the grunting of the blond above him: “Peter? Peter, I cannot read your vitals. Please adjust your suit to align my pulse readers against your corresponding pressure points, Peter.” He vaguely felt his shorts being yanked down. “Are you in trouble, Peter?”

Spots, white and perfectly circular, danced across the red expanse as the teen tried to suck in breath through his covered mouth, his nose. The usual refrain drifted through his fading consciousness; you can’t hurt him. Like a flash, came the response: yes you can, whispered Ben; yes you fucking can, growled Mr Stark.

With a howl, Peter lashed out with one arm. He heard Skip hit the wardrobe door with a bang and flopped onto his back, grasping the hood and wrenching it off, flinging it away. The rush of air flooding into his lungs made his head spin; he cringed from the evening light.

Skip was bleeding, eyes wide as they stared back at him. The wood behind his back had splintered.

“God, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Mr Westcott,” Peter began to whisper. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I couldn’t breathe.”

The man shifted forward, rubbing the back of his head. His jeans were tented, unzipped, Peter could see.

“You attacked me, babe,” Skip muttered. Peter made no move to adjust his shorts, staring instead at the red smear on the blond’s hand; he’d injured him. “You want me to tell May you attacked me? Tell Stark how fucking dangerous you are? Or do you want to make it up to me?”

\---

“You didn’t hear him, Bruce. He was so angry, so disgusted.” Tony tapped agitatedly at his tablet, before discarding it and spinning in his chair to face the room.

The other scientist sat at the desk, fingers steepled and pressed against his lips. Rhodes held his head in his hands, while Natasha leaned against the wall, arms crossed and gaze steely. “Doesn’t sound like the kid,” she said.

 “It was like he was a different person, not my Peter.” He paused. “Not that he’s mine, just, not the sweet, genius spider-intern we’ve come to know and love.” He spun again. “Said it was gross, disgusting. I thought Cap was going to cry, for god’s sake. A century old super soldier is getting to grips with the twenty-first century and a fucking kid from Queen’s is part of the “don’t tell” brigade? How messed up is that?”

The colonel sat up straighter. “What was the uncle’s background? Military? Police? GOP? Anything to make you think Peter would pick this stuff up at home?”

“Maybe we’re misunderstanding,” Bruce said, palms up placating the room. “Like you say, he’s a kid from Queens. The stuff these kids are exposed to, he must have seen more than a kiss on the lips between two men.” They all look uncomfortable at the thought. “Maybe he’s not disgusted; maybe he has a crush?”

The billionaire bristled. “On Captain Perfect?”

“Or on Bucky – they’re pretty close,” Natasha pointed out.

Tony tightened his grip on the arms of the chair. The Soldier had killed his mother. “They’re too old for him,” he muttered.

Bruce chuckled. “Did that stop you when you were his age and full of hormones?”

Tony sighed, dragging his hand across his face. “That’s the thing, the kid’s never shown any interest in anyone, no puppy love, no hormonal outbursts – he’s a PG dream. You know Pete. Do you think he would fall for one of our resident experiments then pitch a fit when he sees them happy with someone else?”

“No,” Natasha conceded. “But I also can’t imagine him telling two men he clearly idolises that he’s disgusted by them.”

Rhodes nodded. “I never thought I’d see Peter look so angry.”

“That wasn’t anger.” Bruce jolted in his chair and Natasha found her hand reaching for the knife at her belt before finding James Barnes at the door. “I’ve seen that look enough times to recognise it. That was fear.”


End file.
